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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993239">kindling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubonickitten/pseuds/bubonickitten'>bubonickitten</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bipolar Anders (Dragon Age), Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, rated teen for the self-harm mentions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:01:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>805</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubonickitten/pseuds/bubonickitten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"He doesn’t have much control over his life, but he’ll take it where he can get it — in self-imposed silence, a renounced name that will never touch their lips; in bruises and burns, cruel warmth that reminds him of the sun on his skin and the embers of a barn on fire; in templar-eating tigers scribbled in the margins of books, a reminder that even the most powerful monsters still bleed. Small acts of rebellion, kindling for the fire, the controlled burn his life has become and the inferno he knows he can be."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>For Anders, adjusting to his new life in the Circle would require accepting it. And that isn't something he's willing to do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>kindling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this like four years ago, but I've just now gotten an AO3 account, so I figured I may as well post it here.</p><p>This was written with Anders' bipolar disorder in mind, though that isn't explicit in the text. </p><p>CW for mentions of self-harm.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anders perches tiptoe on a stool, one arm outstretched above his head in a futile attempt to reach the books on the top shelf. He’s a stubborn child, Wynne has noticed, and she suspects that even if he did speak, he would still refuse to ask for help. She approaches to offer it anyway, and that’s when she notices the burns on his forearms, exposed when the sleeves of his too-big robes slide down his arms as he stretches upward.  </p><p>“Anders, what happened?” </p><p>He startles, loses his balance briefly, nearly topples off the stool. He notices Wynne’s eyes locked on his arms and pulls his sleeves down, his hands and arms disappearing into folds of fabric as he stares her down, unwavering in his silence. </p><p>“Did you burn yourself?” Wynne asks, her brow furrowed in concern. </p><p>It isn’t unusual for apprentices to turn up with burn scars. Some of them are no doubt accidental, scorched fingers an inevitable result of inexperienced hands wielding fire magic — but some are intentional. Self-inflicted injury isn’t rare in the Circle, and burning is one of the most popular methods. Cutting would spark accusations of mages dabbling in blood magic, so they found other ways to cope. </p><p>Magic is versatile, and the mages of the tower are nothing if not resourceful. </p><p>“Anders,” she says again — it feels strange to call him that, but months have passed and still he won’t tell anyone his name. The other apprentices took to calling him “the Ander” within the first few days of his arrival, and the name has stuck. “I should have a look at those burns,” she continues, touching one arm gently. </p><p>“You’re not my mother!” Anders snaps, jerking away.</p><p>Wynne flinches slightly, surprised by the fire in his voice — the first words she’s ever heard him speak, and there are tears in his eyes.</p><p>“Anders,” she begins again, but a moment later his back is to her and he flees. </p><p>________________________________________</p><p>He feels the hot prickle of tears as he leaves Wynne behind him, resentment building in his thoughts and clawing at his throat. </p><p><i>I’m a mage like you,</i> the First Enchanter had told him. <i>You can trust me. You’re safe here.</i> </p><p>But Irving is a stranger, no better than the armored men who dragged Anders to the tower. So they’re both mages — they’re both cursed — so what? It doesn’t mean anything. As far as Anders is concerned, the First Enchanter is just another authority figure looming over him, spouting platitudes and excuses. There is no safety or peace behind these walls. </p><p>The senior mages speak about Anders like he isn’t even there, as though he can’t hear them. At first they exchanged words about how he was only homesick, having trouble adjusting to his new life in the tower. In time he would learn to accept it, they said, just as they did. </p><p>He feels as if he’s the only person in the tower who can see the injustice for what it is. </p><p>Sometimes, though, he wonders if he really is the one with the problem after all. Lately, the sympathy has turned to scorn. Now they call him selfish and petulant. Some speak in hushed whispers about how he’s destined to become a problem. Wynne is one of the few who still looks on him with kind eyes, but she’s still one of them. He has come to regard her compassion as pity, and he resents it. </p><p>The templars are even worse — “that skinny blond nightmare,” they call him. He isn’t sure exactly when he started accepting the accusation with a twisted, spiteful sort of pride, but he can’t help but feel pleased that he makes their lives difficult. </p><p>He doesn’t have much control over his life, but he’ll take it where he can get it — in self-imposed silence, a renounced name that will never touch their lips; in bruises and burns, cruel warmth that reminds him of the sun on his skin and the embers of a barn on fire; in templar-eating tigers scribbled in the margins of books, a reminder that even the most powerful monsters still bleed. Small acts of rebellion, kindling for the fire, the controlled burn his life has become and the inferno he knows he can be. </p><p><i>In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame, all-consuming and never satisfied.</i> </p><p>The words fall like poison from the lips of the Chantry sisters. He takes them in: writes them down, rips them up, then turns them to ashes. He remakes them into something new, fills his sleepless nights with ink-stained fingers, trembling hands, and the fervid scratching of quill on parchment. He is equal parts creation and destruction, survival and rebellion, and when he finally chooses to speak, it will be on his own terms. </p><p>He will not be what they want him to be.</p>
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